


Journalistic Indecency

by ASongofIceandHope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Business AU, Businessman Tom, Eventual Smut, F/M, Journalist Hermione, The Author Regrets Nothing, i am a disgrace to journalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-10-03 02:14:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17275184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASongofIceandHope/pseuds/ASongofIceandHope
Summary: Hermione Granger is the newest star of a small-time newspaper in the heart of midtown Manhattan. But when her editor sends her to interview one of Wall Street’s rising stars, she finds that there are some things her professors back at school could never prepare her for.





	1. The First Interview

**Author's Note:**

> So if you’ve made it past that interesting summary, congrats! I promise I will try to keep this from smelling like 50 Shades, but whenever you turn a character like Tom into a businessman... something is bound to happen. He’ll probably be murdering people still. Eventually. You’ve been warned.

Hermione Granger had been working for _The Daily Phoenix Rising_ for about three weeks when Sirius Black called her to his office; she was working in the local news section, but hoped that eventually she would be answering to Albus Dumbledore himself. Not that she disliked Sirius; he’d been on the fast track at the New York Times before he decided to get out and work for a smaller paper that would give him more opportunities to write what he wanted to write. 

“Ms. Granger,” Sirius greeted when she walked into his office. He was dressed casually, or at least more casual than the other editors bustling around (Editor-in-Chief Albus Dumbledore always wore a three-piece suit), in just a shirt and dress pants. Sirius’ dress shoes had been discarded at the door of his office, and he lounged in his desk chair. 

“Mr. Black,” she returned. “You wished to see me?”

“Yes, yes,” he waved her further in. “I don’t suppose you’ve read the _Wall Street Journal_ this morning?” Hermione shook her head. “Why am I not surprised? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that Riddle Holdings Inc. has a new executive officer, and he’s expecting me to come in at noon to interview him about taking over the company from his late father.”

Hermione blinked. “I’m sorry, sir, but why are you telling me this?” 

Sirius sat up and chuckled. “Because I’m not going to be meeting with Riddle at noon,” he said. “You are. I think this is a good opportunity for you, Granger, to get your foot in the door. Lots of people will be interested in reading about some young hotshot businessman; lots of hits online with your name at the byline.”

She gaped at him for a moment; when she’d been hired, Hermione had emphasized to Sirius that she had no interest in covering those vampires downtown on Wall Street. Her interests were more in the realm of human interest stories and the occasional wedding or two; Hermione wanted to tell more intimate, personal stories, and it had been that ambition to do so that had led to Sirius hiring her almost on the spot. 

“Sir, I’m not sure why—”

“Best get a move on, Ms. Granger,” Sirius stated. “Getting down to the financial district from all the way up here during lunchtime can prove difficult; and if what I’ve heard about the new CEO is true, he won’t like to be kept waiting.”

Hermione simply nodded. When she looked up the location upon exiting his office, she nearly cursed aloud; the Riddle Holdings building was all the way down on Broadway and Pine, while she was stuck in Midtown at 52nd and 6th. It was at least a twenty-two minute drive on a good afternoon, and Hermione had about thirty minutes to get there. 

After grabbing her recorder and a few questions Sirius had drafted up at the front desk, Hermione made a mad dash out to the street to try and hail a taxi. She knew better than to try and make the subway, and it would definitely take more than thirty minutes to get downtown. 

“Taxi!” she shouted when she finally spotted one that wasn’t in service, hailing it down like a madwoman. Thankfully, the driver pulled over and she gave him her destination. 

The city sped past her as Hermione looked out the window, still in awe of the place she now called home. As traffic became more backed up, she took the time to take out her phone and look up Riddle Holdings Inc. The first article to come up had been published just that morning by the _Journal_ , and Hermione imagined it was the one Sirius had referred to in his office. ‘Son of late CEO to head Riddle Holdings,’ the headline read. Accompanying it was a photograph of a rather attractive man, who appeared to be about Hermione’s age; he was seated on a sofa, his legs crossed casually as he glanced aloofly at the camera. 

She found his languid pose amusing, as it seemed quite the opposite image most young businessmen liked to exude, but there was something in his eyes that promised he didn’t need to puff himself up to be great.

Further reading revealed that Tom Riddle (Jr) had gotten both his bachelor’s and MBA from Wharton School before going to work for his father as chief operating officer. He was twenty-eight, unmarried, and lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue. The last fact almost made Hermione snort; the young man she was about to talk shop with was living worlds away from her shitty Brooklyn studio. 

When the taxi driver pulled over at the corner of Broadway and Pine, Hermione checked her watch. She had two minutes to get inside of the Riddle Holdings building and inform whoever she needed to inform that she was there on behalf of _The Phoenix_. It was going to be close, and she was, unfortunately, probably going to be late. But that didn’t stop Hermione from rushing into the building and shuffling to the front desk as quickly as her sensible heels would allow.

“Ms. Hermione Granger here to see Mr. Riddle,” she told a rather snooty blonde sitting behind the front desk. “I’m here on behalf of my boss, Sirius Black.”

“Head up to the twentieth floor,” the blonde informed. “And tell Bella that you’re here to see Mr. Riddle.” 

Hermione thanked the woman and followed a small army of men dressed in suits into a rather impressive elevator. When she did, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored elevator walls and gasped. Her hair was always difficult to tame, but her rush both out of the office and into the Riddle Holdings building had exacerbated her curly locks into a mountain of frizz. Taking her lucky scrunchie off of her wrist, Hermione wrestled her curls into a mildly presentable top-knot just as the elevator doors opened to the twentieth floor. 

Compared to the first floor, the twentieth seemed even more posh and immaculate. Hermione imagined that was on purpose, considering it was the floor the boss worked on. A woman with messily styled black curls was working the front desk, so Hermione approached her.

“What do you want?” she snapped, looking Hermione up and down with a disdainful eye.

“Sirius Black sent me to meet with Mr. Riddle,” Hermione replied. “I’m from _The Phoenix_?” 

The woman still seemed unimpressed, but motioned her over to a small waiting area before picking up the phone and pressing a button. That action seemed to summon a blond man in a light grey suit from the depths of the office building, who approached Hermione with an equally unimpressed look on his face.

“So this is who Sirius sends these days?” he tutted. “Very well. You can follow me.” 

“Thank you,” Hermione managed, following him back through the office. 

The man took her to what seemed to be the board room and Hermione very nearly broke out into a nervous sweat; had Sirius forgotten to tell her she was interviewing the entire board? But when the blond man knocked and only one voice answered, she realized that it was only Mr. Riddle inside. 

Hermione hesitated. “Go on,” the blond man hissed. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” 

As soon as her heels clicked on the floor, the chair at the head of the table spun around. Seated in it was the very man she was expecting; he was an expensive-looking suit that she was sure was at least Tom Ford, if not some even more exclusive designer Hermione had never heard of before. His wavy dark locks were neatly tousled, falling slightly on his forehead. Hermione thought he looked rather like a villain from a John Hughes movie, and the thought almost made her laugh. 

“Is something amusing?” the young man questioned. He would have had a pleasing voice, Hermione noted, if he wasn’t being so abrasive.

“No, not at all,” she collected herself and smoothed her skirt a bit. 

Tom Riddle raised a well-groomed brow at her (Hermione briefly wondered how much he paid to have them kept up so nicely) and rose to his feet. “So you’re who old Dumbledore sends nowadays? Nothing but a schoolgirl?” he approached her and Hermione felt weary almost instantly. 

“Do you read _The Phoenix_ , Mr. Riddle?” she asked softly. 

His lips curled into a rather sinister grin, and Hermione was cursing Sirius for ducking out on interviewing him. 

“Tell me, Miss...?”

“Granger, sir.”

“Miss _Granger_ ,” Riddle echoed, as if he were testing it out on his tongue. “Tell me, Miss Granger; do you think I’m the type of man who would read _The Daily Phoenix Rising_?”

“Not at all,” Hermione replied. 

“What newspaper do you think I read on a daily basis?” he leaned on the edge of the boardroom table, his grey eyes twinkling as if his unnerving questioning was merely a game. Perhaps it was.

“I thought I was the one doing the interviewing?” Hermione was growing cross with him by the minute.

“We’ll get to whatever dull questions Sirius sent along with you later,” Riddle dismissed. “Now take a guess; entertain me, Miss Granger.” He wasn’t giving up his game, it appeared. 

So Hermione decided to bite. “ _The Wall Street Journal_ ,” she stated. “Exclusively.”

His grin grew wider. “And let me make some assumptions about you, Miss Granger,” he hummed.

“Be my guest,” Hermione grit her teeth. 

“You’re an only child. That much is evident by the air of superiority and assumed maturity you’ve put on from the moment you walked through the door. You’re also from the Midwest, which is clear from your stubbornness,” he said. “You were a straight-A student through all of elementary, middle and high school, and most of college until you had some sort of distraction — likely an unfortunate break-up with some miserable dolt who wanted you to stay back in said Midwest with him.”

“Excuse me—”

“I’m not finished,” Riddle stated. “You started off college as something more competitive, probably a political science major, but you couldn’t stand their mile-a-minute attitude, so you decided to switch to journalism instead. Your heroes are without a doubt Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, and of course, Albus Dumbledore. In college, you read _The Washington Post_ almost exclusively until you branched out to smaller newspapers, which led you to _The Phoenix_. You live in Brooklyn, likely in some miserable little studio. Am I correct?”

By the time he was finished, Hermione was almost close to tears. He hadn’t said a single truly mean thing to her or about her, but the manner in which he — correctly — assumed everything about her made her chest feel like it was going to explode.

“Yes, but what does this have to do with—”

He stepped even closer to her, slamming his hand down on the glass table. “I can read every single person who walks through that door and tell them what it is they want; what they want from me, what they want for themselves, what they want from the world, Miss Granger,” he said, his eyes shining intensely. “You’re no different. Remember that.”

Hermione was holding her breath, wishing quietly that he would remove himself from her personal space. She knew CEOs were known for being intense and ambitious, but Tom Riddle went above-and-beyond in both regards. 

He was downright terrifying. 

When he stepped back, he smoothed his hair back and straightened his tie. “Leave your questions and contact information with Bella at the front desk,” he told her. “I’ll have answers for you no later than two-thirty.”

All Hermione could do was nod quickly before retreating from the room.

The dark-haired woman behind the front desk looked at her with amusement as she shakily handed over the questions from Sirius and one the business cards her father had given her for Christmas the year before.

“We’ll be in touch,” the woman, Bella, told her.

Something about the tone of her voice told Hermione not to hold her breath.


	2. The First Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really delighted by the responses this fic has received, and I definitely am even more excited about this chapter; not only do we get a look into Hermione’s world, but we start to see what Tom might want from her.

Tom Riddle emailed the answers to all of Sirius’ questions to Hermione by two o’clock in the afternoon. She had the story all drafted up and on Sirius’ desk by three, and she was on her way to her apartment by four. When she reached the cramped little studio, Hermione shrugged her bag off her shoulder and dropped it unceremoniously on her tiny kitchen counter. Her cat, Crookshanks, brushed between her legs and Hermione smiled tiredly at him.

“How are you Crooks?” she hummed, picking up the cat to scratch him behind the ears. “Boy, what a day I’ve had...” 

Hermione crossed over to her refrigerator and pulled a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a chilled glass from its rather empty depths before shuffling to her bed. She set Crookshanks down on the bed and opened the bottle, pouring herself a glass and taking a sip before setting it down on her nightstand. 

After taking a sip from her glass, Hermione began to wrestle with the old zipper of her skirt. She had just gotten it off and was about to tug on her favorite pair of sweatpants when her phone began to buzz. The vibrating sent Crookshanks flying off the bed with a frustrated mewl; Hermione rolled her eyes before picking it up. The caller was in her contacts and Hermione both smiled and rolled her eyes before answering.

“Hey, Gin,” she greeted. “What’s up?”

“Hey!” Ginny greeted on the other end of the call. “Are you going out with us tonight? Cho found this new bar in the Village that has charred pineapple mojitos...”

Ginny Weasley and Cho Chang had gone to Northwestern with Hermione and the three of them had all moved to New York within the span of three months. Ginny was working in marketing for some artisanal soda brand, while Cho was going to Columbia for law school. And while Hermione loved them with all her heart, going out with them was sometimes exhausting and usually meant dealing with Ginny and Cho’s boyfriends. Not that she disliked Harry and Cedric, but she didn’t want to be a fifth wheel. 

“Sorry, Gin,” Hermione sighed. “I was planning on staying in tonight. You wouldn’t believe the day I had at work—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ginny interrupted. “If you want to complain about work, you’re going to do it in person over a drink.”

Hermione glanced over at her clothes rack; her mother had sent her some ‘fun summer clothes’ that she’d left at home during the big move. And while she’d certainly have other opportunities to wear them — Ginny and Cho wanting to go out was not an unusual occurrence — Hermione did kind of want something stronger than wine after her interview with Tom Riddle. 

“Okay, fine,” she huffed. 

After a quick change and a retouch of her already minimal makeup, Hermione was standing on the stoop of Ginny’s apartment building. Ginny buzzed her in and Hermione mounted the stairs, making the hike up to the third floor in little to no time. When she came in, Ginny and Cho had clearly started pregaming and were dressed not so much to go out to a bar as they were to go to a club. Ginny was showing all kinds of leg, while Cho’s silver dress had nothing resembling a back. Compared to them, Hermione’s dark-wash skinny jeans and simple blouse looked nothing short of plain.

“Oh, didn’t Ginny tell you?” Cho said as she embraced Hermione, ushering her into the apartment. “This place in the Village is a club.”

“She can borrow something of mine!” Ginny exclaimed. Hermione watched her set down a wedge of lime and a shot glass that was definitely filled with tequila. “I think I have something that will look really good on you, ‘Mione.”

Hermione highly doubted it. While Ginny was tall, lean and athletic, Hermione was decidedly... not. She was petite, but had inherited her mother’s genes for decent breasts, which arrived at some point during eighth grade or freshman year of high school. They’d been the bane of her existence throughout high school, but when she arrived at college, Hermione was finally more aware of how men liked to... admire them. 

It had been about six months since Hermione and Ginny’s older brother Ron had broken up. Ron constantly accused her of being married to her future career, she ignored him and focused on her work anyway. He’d spent most of their senior year drowning in bong water while Hermione became the Daily Northwestern’s Editor-in-Chief. 

Ron moved out to New York like the rest of them and was apparently becoming a police officer.

But since it had been so long since she’d entertained anything resembling male attention, Hermione figured there was no time like the present — and there was no harm in flirting with a stranger at the bar, as long as she didn’t go home with them. 

And when Ginny threw a low-cut, dark red number her way as Cho shoved a Jell-O shot in her hand, Hermione had a feeling it was going to be an interesting night. 

Once Hermione had wrestled with the constricting red dress and had it on (and taken the Jell-O shot), Cho descended on her, armed with some expensive eyeshadow palette and a few other products Hermione rarely cared to purchase or use. Before Cho could attack her, Hermione reached up to take out her scrunchie, only to be stopped by her eager attacker.

“Don’t do that,” Cho placed a hand on her wrist. “You have a pretty neck; keep your hair up.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and obliged her. 

An obscene amount of makeup (and a fair few shots) later, Hermione admittedly looked pretty good and was feeling ready for a night out on the town. When she heard Ginny shrieking that the Uber was here, Hermione grabbed one last tequila shot and downed it, only briefly making a face, before following Ginny and Cho out the door. 

*****

When they arrived, there was already a line down the block filled with other young people who were dressed up to the nines. Hermione frowned deeply when Cho took the initiative to walk all the way up to the front of the line. Much to Hermione’s surprise, Cho greeted the hulking figure by name and gave him a hug before he let them into the club ahead of everyone else.

“How did you—”

“Crabbe’s in my constitutional law class!” Cho shouted to her over the deafening music. “He said the other day that he owes me, so...” With no more than a shrug, she took Hermione’s hand and dragged her toward the bar. 

Hermione tried to tell Cho she didn’t need another drink, but when she shoved a shot into her hands, what was a girl to do? It was a tell-tale sign of her inevitable intoxication that the shots were going down much smoother, so Hermione took it upon herself to scan the crowd. The club was already decidedly packed, but there seemed to be an excessive amount of commotion around the VIP section. Hermione’s journalistic instincts urged her to go investigate, but she knew that getting anywhere near the VIP section would be nearly impossible.

It was an impossibility that seemed less impossible after two more shots. 

“Hey!” Ginny yelled at her, grabbing Hermione’s wrist as she started toward the roped off part of the club. “Where are you going?” 

Since Harry, a fellow law student of Cho’s, had arrived and had his hands all over Ginny, Hermione imagined she wouldn’t care in a few minutes. So she simply shrugged and smiled at her.

“Bathroom!” she yelled back. Ginny just smiled brightly at her before turning her attention back to Harry.

Relieved with her dismissal from third-wheeling, Hermione pushed her way through the mass of sweating, gyrating bodies to try and reach the velvet ropes in the distance. Of course, she couldn’t get too close, as there were crowds of people trying to claim they knew so-and-so from such-and-such in order to get in and mingle with the pretty people. Getting up on her tiptoes, Hermione tried to get a look at whoever was sitting back there. Instead, all the could see was the back of other people’s heads and the intimidating bouncer keeping them all out. 

Just before she sunk back down to a more level position, Hermione spied a blond man she was sure she knew from somewhere; in fact, she was certain she would have recognized him had she not been fairly intoxicated already. 

She made eye contact with the hulking bouncer for a moment, and when he started to make his way through the crowd toward her, Hermione’s first instinct was to turn around and bolt.

Instead, the liquid courage pulsing through her veins won over and she stood her ground. 

“Miss Granger,” the bouncer acknowledged her. “You can follow me.”

Her jaw dropped for a moment and Hermione gaped at the back of the bouncer’s head as he led her through the disgruntled-looking crowd. She wondered who could have vouched for her; no one she knew personally in the city would be able to make it back into such an exclusive area. 

The VIP section was far quieter than the rest of the club somehow, and a waitress handed her a champagne glass with a charming smile.

“What is this?” Hermione asked.

“Cristal,” she replied. “Don’t worry; it’s been paid for.”

With a quiet thank you, Hermione slipped further into the darkened lounge. In passing, she thought she felt like she was descending into the heart of darkness. But if that was the case, she did not know who would be Mr. Kurtz; after all, she would need to identify her host and thank them for giving her such a generous gift. 

As she wandered around, a blonde girl grabbed Hermione’s wrist and threw some sort of pill in her mouth, which Hermione promptly spit out.

“What the fuck—”

“Miss Granger,” a low voice hummed behind her. 

The hair on the back of her neck stood up and Hermione slowly turned around to find none other than the biggest pain in the ass she’d ever met standing behind her. 

Tom Riddle Jr. was still wearing a suit, but he’d since ditched his tie and had unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. Hermione fixed her gaze on his jugular notch for a moment, running her tongue over her dry lips before looking up at his face. 

“Imagine my surprise when Draco told me he spotted the young reporter from today in this club,” he stated. 

“Did you let me back here just so you could dress me down again?” Hermione sneered.

Riddle’s eyes twinkled with something Hermione couldn’t quite read as he appraised her. She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol in her, but she was fairly certain his gaze lingered for a moment on her breasts. The more logical part of Hermione’s brain swooped in and brushed such a thought aside, and she fixed her hazy eyes on him in frustration.

“You’re drunk,” Riddle pointed out. 

“I’m well aware of that,” she sniffed. 

“I was just pointing it out,” Riddle began, “because your article about me hasn’t run yet.”

“What does that have to with...” Hermione looked at the glass of Cristal in her hand and almost dropped the glass. “Oh no...” If anyone knew that she’d accepted a glass of champagne from Riddle before the article ran, she could be in big trouble; accepting anything from your interviewee was viewed as accepting a bribe. And while Hermione had not written a very nice article about Tom Riddle, she was sure he had a trick up his sleeve.

“Funny, I also have this photo of one of my associates putting a pill in your mouth,” he pulled out the latest iPhone from his back pocket and held it up. The blonde girl from earlier was pictured, as was Hermione, who had a pill on her tongue. “MDMA, is it? Very illegal, Miss Granger.”

“I didn’t... I didn’t ask her to—”

“All very likely, Miss Granger,” Riddle said. “But please, come take a seat and maybe we can find a way for you to keep your job.”


	3. Tokens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY finished chapter 3; I’m not sure if I’m super happy about it but... enjoy?

Hermione sat beside Riddle on a black leather sofa. The couch was surrounded by most of his associates, including the blond man Hermione had noticed earlier and the blonde girl who’d put the pill in her mouth. There were others, who all looked like cross, spoiled rich kids who Hermione probably would have avoided if they’d gone to Northwestern together. They were truly the vampires of Wall Street, and Hermione’s skin itched with the urge to get away from them. 

“Mr. Riddle, what can I do for you?” Hermione sighed. She set down her now-empty champagne glass, feeling her head spin a bit at the mixing alcohols in her system. 

“Believe me, Miss Granger, there is much more that I can do for you,” he told her. Another waitress brought her a glass of champagne, and being drunk already, Hermione accepted it. “I read up on you after our meeting; how does the Editor-in-Chief of The Daily Northwestern settle for a lowlife job in the city — especially after graduating summa cum laude from Medill?”

“And picking up a minor in legal studies,” Hermione slurred slightly. “Betcha missed that, stalker.” She fixed her hazy eyes on him with a small pout. Had any of her friends been around to witness the expression, they would have pulled her away from Riddle; anyone who knew Hermione knew that her drunken pout meant that some biting truths were about to be unleashed. “Y’know what I find funny, Mr. Riddle? You claim to be so remarkably remarkable at... at reading people. But you know what?”

Riddle’s lips curled in a bemused smirk as he lazily took a sip from a tumbler. “What, Miss Granger?”

“I think it’s all bullshit,” Hermione huffed. “After all, in the time it took for me to get into your fancy freaking elevators after checking into the front desk to go to your office, who’s to say you didn’t whip out your fancy smartphone and google me? Shit, I think everything you guessed about me — except for the boyfriend bit; fuck you, by the way, for that — is on my Phoenix bio.” Riddle opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione realized she was on a roll and practically shoved her fingers into his mouth to silence him. “Shh, I’m not finished. So anyway. Bullshit. I think you think you’re disarming, but really, you’re just another rich boy from the Upper East Side who went to an Ivy.”

The room was starting to spin and Hermione was worried there was something other than alcohol in that champagne. Her hand slipped from its place covering Riddle’s mouth down to his chest and then his upper thigh. She could hear the cruel sniggering from his entourage as she braced herself.

“Anything else, Miss Granger?” Riddle’s voice was smug and Hermione wanted to scream at him for being such a little prick.

“Yes,” she choked out. 

The spinning was getting faster, like some tilt-a-whirl from hell. Hermione had always hated those sorts of rides. Blood was pounding in her ears and everything seemed muffled and distant. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the swirling vortex only continued on its inevitable path.

“What?” Riddle sneered.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Hermione groaned. 

Everything Hermione had eaten that day rushed forth, the contents of her stomach finding their way onto Riddle’s expensive-looking shoes. The burning in her nose and throat made Hermione regret getting Indian food for lunch, but her disdain for her food choices was soon replaced with embarrassment. She didn’t even want to look at Riddle; the sounds of disgust and amusement coming from his posse told her enough. 

A waitress was soon over, handing her a napkin and a cup of water, while another cleaned up the floor and Riddle’s shoes as best she could. Once they were gone, a hand wrapped around her bicep, hauling her to her feet. 

“I’m taking you home,” Riddle snarled, clearly covering for his own embarrassment. Hermione could only nod and groan, tripping over herself as they exited out the back. 

As an unmarked black SUV pulled up in the alleyway, Hermione dared to steal a look at her unwilling host. He was looking straight ahead, and barely looked at her when he helped her into the backseat. Riddle sat up front, only speaking to Hermione when he asked for her address. 

“You could have just taken me back to my friends,” Hermione mumbled as soon as they reached the Brooklyn Bridge. 

“Yes, because I’m sure they’re sober enough to look out for you,” he snapped. 

The SUV pulled up right in front of Hermione’s building. Without waiting for Riddle to get out, she opened her door and stepped out on her own, almost landing face-flat on the curb. With an audible huff, Riddle got out and walked her up to her building.

“I can get in on my own,” she snarled at him.

“All the same, I’d like to make sure you don’t end your night choking to death on your own vomit,” Riddle retorted. “After you.” He motioned with his hands, and Hermione marched into the building. Her apartment was all the way on the fifth floor, and since it was an older apartment building, they had no choice but to take the stairs. Riddle was right on her heels the whole way up, and followed her into her apartment when they finally reached their destination.

“You can go now,” Hermione stated. “Clearly I’m coherent.”

Riddle eyed her as if he didn’t believe her. But he didn’t argue. “Our conversation from earlier isn’t over, Miss Granger,” he warned. “Remember that.” 

Hermione ushered Riddle to the door, opening it with one hand while she wrestled with the zipper of Ginny’s dress. He said nothing more to her as he left, brushing against her for the briefest of moments. Once he was out in the hall, Hermione slammed the door behind him and got out of the dress, climbing into bed with a grunt.

*****

If the rail-splitting headache Hermione had in the morning was any reminder of how horrid her evening had gone, what was waiting for her at work that morning was even worse. Firstly, she arrived ten minutes late to the office, which was embarrassing and completely unlike her. Secondly, the secretary, Mrs. Figg, waved her down which was highly unusual for a Friday; the office was usually deadly quiet on a Friday.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Figg?” she asked, trying her best not to rub her temples. The standard office lighting was only exacerbating her pounding head. 

“There was a delivery for you this morning, Miss Granger,” the elderly woman informed Hermione. Then, she shuffled off to the side and struggled with some immense thing that was hidden by the large front desk. Hermione almost went around the desk to help her, but Mrs. Figg managed to wrestle the delivery out and plop it down in front of her. At the sight of the delivery, Hermione’s jaw nearly hit the ground.

The spotless, clear square box was filled to the brim with burgundy roses that looked fresher than any roses Hermione had ever seen. For a moment, she wondered if Ron had sent them in a pathetic attempt at apologizing, but a box of flowers from Venus Et Fleur would set him back about five hundred dollars — which made them being from Ron highly unlikely.

“Did they come with a note, by chance?” Hermione inquired. 

“Let me check,” Mrs. Figg clucked. “Ah! There we are...” She handed Hermione a cream and gold notecard, which Hermione quickly scanned over. 

_Hermione,_

_It was wonderful to see you the other night._   
_I hope you’ve considered my offer._   
_If you have, please call; I’ll send a car for you tonight._

_TMR_

Hermione shuddered slightly, but quietly took the flowers back to her cubicle. Just as she arrived, Sirius passed by — likely to congratulate her on her article on Riddle. The online article had already gotten about 7000 page views, and would likely gather more that day. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the expensive flower arrangement, raising a brow at her.

“Another apologetic boyfriend, Hermione?” he inquired.

“Far from it,” she snorted. “A gift from Mr. Riddle for being such a good interviewer the other day.” Sirius gave a whistle at that and Hermione blushed. 

“I’m sure he’ll be in here demanding them back once he reads what you wrote about him,” Sirius said. The image of the man she’d encountered twice in the last twenty-four hours storming into the office and snatching up the large box of roses over her article about him made Hermione chuckle. 

“As if he’d ever set foot in this office,” Hermione pointed out. 

Sirius laughed. “Fair point,” he admitted. “Anyway, good job on the Riddle feature, Hermione. Word on the street is that old Dumbledore is very pleased with you.”

The pleased feeling that filled Hermione’s chest after Sirius left didn’t last long. It dwindled so quickly mostly due to the fact that the little cream and gold note could be seen in the corner of Hermione’s eye for most of the day. Word that production was done for the day brought Hermione such a great deal of relief that she nearly leapt from her seat at her desk. After gathering her things (including the damned note), Hermione began to depart. She had almost made it to the front door when she was stopped by one of the sports columnists, Viktor Krum.

Krum was a few years older than Hermione; a former college soccer player, he was both well-versed in his field and exercised like a border collie, which allowed him to still be as fit as many of the athletes he interviewed. Hermione found him to be a nice man, but had never given him much thought; she’d often wondered what they would talk about over drinks, considering her knowledge of the sports world was limited to knowing which sport Tiger Woods played. 

“Hermione?” his Eastern European accent muddled her name a bit as she came to a halt. 

“Hello, Viktor,” she greeted cordially. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Um, yes,” Krum replied. “I was wondering... if you would get a drink with me this evening?”

Hermione hesitated with a reply, which she was certain felt like rejection to her potential date for the night. She considered the pros and cons quickly; Krum was good-looking and it had been a while since she’d gone on a date, but the potential messiness of sleeping with a coworker lurked in the back of her mind. Of course, Hermione eventually decided, she could always make sure it didn’t go that far...

“I’d be happy to,” she smiled. “What time and where?” 

They agreed upon a time and place and Hermione soon found herself on the subway back to her little studio. She’d almost forgotten all about her flowers that morning and the little note that was tucked away in her purse until she checked her mailbox in her building. A small package had been placed inside, along with a black card envelope. Curious, Hermione went ahead and opened the envelope at her mailbox. 

_I see you’ve chosen to ignore me._

_Regardless, there will be a car out front at eleven o’clock sharp waiting for you._

_TMR_

The card answered her question about who probably sent her the small package as well, but Hermione decided to wait and open it in her apartment. Inside the package, which had been wrapped up like it was from one of the high-end department stores Cho loved, a small brass key was nestled in burgundy velvet.

Hermione took it out, weighing it in her hand for a moment. It looked antique, and more like the key to an armoire or dresser than to a house or apartment. She wrapped her fingers around it and poured herself a drink before fishing the cream and gold card out of her bag.


	4. The First Negotiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... have returned. I apologize for the wait; school kicked my ass for A WHILE. But I hope all is repaid with this chapter!

Drinks at seven. Hermione’s credit card bounced nervously on the bar as she waited for her French 75. Viktor was already settled in a booth, content with a pint of some IPA that Hermione had naturally never heard of. Drinks at seven, and then the car would arrive at her place at eleven. She had four hours, give or take; certainly enough time to decide if Viktor was second-date worthy, but was it enough time to decide if she was actually going to get into the car Riddle was sending for her?

She slid the bartender a tip as he handed over the martini glass filled with the bubbly, lemony concoction she’d ordered, and Hermione briefly wondered if she already had made up her mind.

After all, she was a journalist; what else was she but curious?

Viktor was a charming date, polite and interested in Hermione. He was the sort of man she was sure her parents would want her to bring home; conventionally attractive, tall, with a warm personality. She wouldn’t have dared call him the exact opposite of Ron, for they were somewhat similar. Both men were interested in sports, and Ron would pay attention to her — sometimes. (Usually when it was to his benefit to get snuggly with his girlfriend.)

Had Viktor not been such a wonderful date, Hermione would have noticed that the clock had ticked by with each passing drink they finished. It was 11:05 when her phone began to buzz in her purse. 

The number was unlisted, but when Hermione got a look at the time she felt she could guess who was trying to contact her.

“Sorry, Viktor,” she mumbled before getting up and accepting the call. “Hello?”

“Where are you?”

His voice was unmistakable. The trained, polished timbre reminded Hermione of the actors in the old movies she had watched one summer when she couldn’t get enough of Audrey Hepburn. It was the voice of American royalty; of boarding schools and summers in the Hamptons, of sailing off Cape Cod and running for public office. 

“I... I’m on a date with one of my coworkers,” Hermione answered. 

“Which bar? I will send the car there, if you’d like,” Tom stated. A small sigh escaped Hermione’s lips. She looked back at Viktor and ground her teeth a bit.

“Just send the car to the corner of 36th and Madison,” she replied.

When Hermione returned to the table, she could see concern written all over Viktor’s face. With a deft smile and a hand on his forearm, she laughed it off and explained that her friends were setting up an Uber to go clubbing in the meatpacking district that night. Her phone buzzed a few minutes later, and Hermione looked down to see a text from the contact she had simply titled “TMR.”

_ETA one minute._

“I have to go,” Hermione got up quickly. “I had a very nice time. I’ll see you at work?”

“Of course, Hermione,” Viktor assured. “I had a nice time too.”

Just as she reached the corner she’d told Tom to send the car, an unmarked town-car pulled up to the curb. Its driver seemed to recognize her and got out, opening the back door for her. Hermione was frazzled by such service, but quickly got in. She started to slide to the left, but came to a halt when her hand bumped another hand. Hermione’s head snapped in the direction of the hand’s owner to find Riddle sitting next to her. 

“I do hope you don’t get into cabs so blindly,” Tom hummed. “A single woman ought to be more aware of her surroundings.” Her immediate impulse was to roll her eyes at him, but resisted and followed her instincts instead.

“Where are you taking me?” Hermione made sure not to hide the slight accusation in the question. They were speeding and weaving through traffic toward the park, which, while Hermione didn’t think Tom Riddle (himself) was a murderer, it certainly was an ideal spot to dump the body of a journalist who had written a less-than-flattering article about you. 

A devilish grin graced Tom’s otherwise stoic face and Hermione swallowed. 

“It’s a surprise, Miss Granger,” was all he said.

The car pulled up to the curb in front of a Park Avenue apartment building Hermione was sure she’d seen in some television show about the lifestyles of the rich and famous, perhaps a documentary about Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis. Once again, the driver got out and opened the door for her, offering his hand to her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. Tom followed closely behind her, nodding to the doorman out front as they entered an immaculate lobby. The elevator they entered even had an operator — a feature in a building Hermione hadn’t seen since the summer she and her parents had stayed at the Hotel Del Coronado out in California for a night.

“Eleventh floor, please,” Tom requested. 

Hermione’s mind was working overtime as the elevator lurched to life and speedily ascended to the floor Tom had given. When the doors opened, Hermione knew they weren’t going to his apartment because it was well-documented that Tom had inherited a Park Avenue penthouse. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why they were there.

When they reached a door, Tom pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He motioned for Hermione to step in first, but her eyes narrowed. Perhaps she had seen too many episodes of _Law & Order_ or shouldn’t have binged all those documentaries on Ted Bundy on Netflix, but she knew better than to enter the apartment before Tom.

“After you,” she cocked her head to the side and raised a brow.

A smirk tugged at the corners of Tom’s lips. “If you insist,” he said, leading the way into the apartment. 

Upon entering, Hermione’s jaw nearly fell to the floor. It was, in her opinion, the perfect Manhattan apartment. It was pre-war, with floor-to-ceiling windows that, she was sure, would let in plenty of natural light during the day. They opened to a Juliette balcony, which Hermione wanted to see right away.

But what was perhaps most impressive to Hermione was the second room Tom led her into, which was a perfectly appointed library. Its shelves were stocked with all the classics, including a rather ancient-looking copy of Shakespeare’s complete works. 

“Why are you showing me this?” The question finally rose from her throat and she turned to face him, one hand resting on the cool marble of the stately fireplace in the library.

“Don’t you want to see the rest of the apartment before you start asking questions?” Tom inquired from his seated position on the library’s sleek mid-century modern sofa. In that moment, Hermione amused herself by thinking he looked like he’d walked straight out of _Mad Men_.

“What else would you like me to see?”

Tom then embarked on giving Hermione a thorough tour of the apartment, pointing out all the original features and the new additions that had been done in order to bring the delightful apartment into the modern era. He brought their tour to an end in the master bedroom, where he took a seat on the edge of the bed and calmly lounged.

“It was my father’s dying wish that I be something more than a businessman,” he told Hermione. “Like so many wealthy fathers before him, he had... higher aspirations for the next generation of Riddles. But he had to place all expectation on the shoulders of a lone son.”

“Is this on the record?” Hermione raised a brow.

“It most certainly is not, and if you repeat anything I tell you this evening I will sue The Phoenix so thoroughly that you will never be able to work in this town again.” His voice was calm, but his eyes shone with a fierceness Hermione considered utterly feral.

“Understood,” she raised her hands in front of herself defensively. 

“As I was saying, all of my father’s hopes for the Riddle name to be elevated beyond that of just the family business rest on me,” Tom hummed. “I am not so weak that this task is above me; quite the contrary, I believe. But... in this day and age I must admit that even the most deft politician cannot rise to the top of the heap by himself.”

Hermione’s brows knit together in confusion. “Are... Are you trying to hire me?” 

“If that’s what you’d like to consider it, yes,” Tom stated. “You... while you do not come from a pedigree comparable to the girls I’ve known all my life, your family and education are both respectable. You’re an accomplished young journalist, and with a little... polishing I believe your appearance would be pleasing to a wider audience.”

“Why would that matter if you were hiring me for... for PR? Communications? Speechwriting?” Hermione guessed, still not sure what Tom was asking of her. 

An aloof sigh passed Tom’s parted lips.

“Let me give you some examples, Hermione,” he stated. “John had Jackie. Bill had Hillary. Barack had Michelle. I could list some fictitious examples, but I assume I have gotten my point across.” 

“You hardly know me,” Hermione managed.

Her throat felt tight, her mouth dry. Her tongue ran the edge of her top teeth, as her head tried its best to find reason in what Tom-fucking-Riddle was saying. She quickly decided he was a man well beyond reason, as Hermione saw no reason as to why Tom should even consider her for the “role” he wanted her to play. After all, he’d alluded to knowing many women whose breeding and background were far more impressive than her own. 

“And you hardly know me,” Tom echoed. He rose from his seated position to stand in front of her, overshadowing her with his height and larger frame. 

“Yet another reason why this is such a poor idea,” she muttered. 

Hermione avoided his insistent gaze, wishing he would just accept her wariness and hinted refusal and go pursue another woman. But Tom Riddle was known for being insistent. 

“Why, Hermione?” His voice was low, almost a purr. It made Hermione think of the evil snake in _The Jungle Book_ ; as if Tom were hypnotizing her and hissing “trust in me.”

“You can’t tell me,” his hand hovered just above her forearm, fingers flexed slightly with the utmost restraint. “You can’t tell me you’ve never fantasized about what it’s like in my world, that you haven’t dreamed at night about galas and black tie affairs...” The tension coiled in Hermione’s stomach felt like it was going to burst at any moment, but she noted he was very careful not to touch her; he was smart, even when he was faced with something he so wanted. “That life could be yours. If...”

“If I give up the life I have now.” The words left Hermione with a shuddering breath. She finally met his gaze, her brown eyes meeting his cool blue ones. 

“You won’t have to give up your life, Hermione,” Tom murmured. “You would be receiving a new life, an... elevation, if you will. This apartment would be yours, you would have access to my drivers and the company’s private jet. You would have unlimited access to me, which, I must say, is far more of me than I have ever offered a partner before.” He finally placed his hands on her, turning her to face the mirror she’d had her back to as he spoke. As Tom ran his hands down from her shoulders, his fingers dancing along the smooth skin of her arms, Hermione shivered.

“Everything you’ve ever wanted,” Tom whispered in her ear. “Every single thing you’ve longed for... I can make happen, Hermione. You know it to be true. And all it will take is just one little, tiny word from those pink lips of yours.” He buried his nose in the hair at the crown of her head, inhaling slightly. His eyes met her, glinting like the cat that got the cream just above her. “What do you say, Hermione? You know what you want. And you know how to get it. Just say the word.”

Hermione’s tongue peeped out and she wet her lips. 

_“No.”_


End file.
